


Reconcile

by GreyCreek



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Bit Not Good, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apologies, Comfort Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, It's Okay, John is a Mess, M/M, Making Out, Mary is not evil, Oral Sex, Pillow Talk, Porn With Plot, Post-Season/Series 04, Rutting, Sherlock is a Mess, Snogging, good thing that it's all fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-10 06:54:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13497010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyCreek/pseuds/GreyCreek
Summary: “I'm – I'm a bloody monster," John gasped, a broken sob coming from him."No," Sherlock murmured simply. "You're a man who has monsters, John. And now you've come to realize it."





	1. Chapter 1

They were taking a break. 

 

It was better this way, letting things simmer before something else would inevitably ignite between them again – a trying case, an explosive row, another evil mastermind – John knew it would come. If Sherlock was a magnet, danger was raw metal.

 

So, this break – this unspoken holiday between them, as John slowly let the others “babysit” Sherlock the  ~~ Addict ~~ _User_ , as he began to babysit his actual child, once they’d gotten 221B re-settled after the explosion – it happened three months past Mary’s death as he slowly began to function again. 

 

The death of his spouse, of someone he loved, paralyzed his very nerves, but John had to look past it for his number one priority now: Rosie. Lest he become like his father, he forced himself to stop having a drink every night before bed. As every day passed and he began to regain what little life he had before, Mary grew fainter and fainter in his vision. Mary. His moral compass. His hallucination. 

 

She hadn’t appeared in a week now and John began to think that he was finally getting some closure from this nightmare.

 

Blissfully, it was a quiet night. John’s head hit the pillow at 12:03 A.M. and he was out by 12:06. _Exhausted_. He needed locum work. No more of this nine-to-five crap, paperwork clogging up his free time. God knew he had plenty of money left for him and his daughter now. 

 

By three A.M. he was bringing up dinner in the toilet bowl.

 

He hung his head with a rough sob, heaved a whole lot of nothing for a good two minutes, flushed without looking, and pushed himself off the porcelain. His hand shook as he brushed tears from his chin and cheeks.

 

“Call him,” she intoned.

 

John started violently, a death grip on the seat of the toilet. All it took was his eyes to move to the tub to see her sitting on the edge, dressed in a smart little button-up and dark red trousers.

 

“Fuck’s sake,” he sighed in response to the hallucination. “What time ’s it?” He stumbled drowsily to his feet and grabbed his toothbrush.

 

“How would I know?” Mary snorted. “Check your phone. You rather like that phone of yours, texting up Sherlock’s sister.”

 

John closed his eyes.

 

All in his head.

 

“You’re pretty shit at being a ghost. You couldn’t have known – ”

 

“I’m not a ghost, I’m a figment,” she argued, arms crossing.

 

“Well, I could give less of a fig what you are.”

 

“That’s not true,” Mary said steadily, appearing at his side as he brushed his teeth viciously.

 

“No, ’s’nah,” John replied quietly, and because Mary was a perfect figment, she understood what he’d said with a toothbrush lodged in his mouth.

 

“If you want me to go away tonight you have to call him.”

 

John spat in the sink and reached for his mouthwash. “Who said I wanted you to go away?”

 

Mary leaned over the side of the sink, into John’s viewpoint, and he stepped back with alarm. 

 

“It’s not really me,” she emphasized. “I could be anyone.” 

 

John rubbed his eyes, opened them, and there stood his mother. Frail, dressed her coat and outdated clothing, he looked at him like she didn’t recognize him, which was how he remembered her. A paranoid schizophrenic. He shook his head and closed his eyes again as his toothbrush clattered on the tiled floor beneath him. “No. Not her. I want you,” he breathed out.

 

“I’m here.”

 

He opened his eyes and Mary was back again. He exhaled heavily, covering his face and scrubbing it with his palms. After a moment, he rinsed his mouth and spat in the sink again, retreating to the bedroom.

 

“Call him, John. Tell him about your nightmare.”

 

“I can’t.”

 

“Why?”

 

“We’re taking a break.”

 

“No, you’re just ignoring him.” She dipped her head down in disapproval. Her figure leaned against the doorway, flickering away as John passed his mobile between each hand. “Do it. Don’t be cowardly. How long has it been?”

 

“Since we’ve spoken last? Maybe, er, six…seven weeks.” It was nine.

 

“You know he needs you.” 

 

“‘Course he doesn’t,” he murmured, perching on the edge of the bed.

 

“He’s still in recovery, you idiot. Now call him.”

 

“It’s three in the morning.”

 

“He’ll be up.”

 

When John looked for her, she had disappeared. He laid in bed and stared at the ceiling, rolled over, stared at the wall, rolled over, and stared at the screen of his phone for three minutes longer.

 

“Shit,” he sighed heavily, putting in the detective’s number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't wrote fan fiction since 2015 or thereabout! I'm getting my feelers out for a very simple, short work here as I balance the workload of being at an art college. Consider this very short first chapter as an introduction!
> 
> By the way, if anything seems iffy or strange due to timelines, canon, etc., go ahead and let me know. I only watched the fourth season once and wasn't really planning on going back to watch it any time soon (yes, lazy, I know, but it's an absolutely petrifying season after all). I really feel like there is a lack of canonical-based fanwork left in the Sherlock fan fiction community, so here we are. Please let me know what you think, critique is always welcome, and I'm open to ideas as to where you think this could go as well. Thank you for reading. :-)
> 
> EDIT:
> 
> **Please Read Before Commenting!**
> 
> I've noticed that people often like to be divisive in the community nowadays. I should say this: please keep that off my stories. Let's talk about what I've written or how I've written it, not how much you hate the writers or hate certain characters or disagree with this or that – there's plenty of other places for that. Either way, the show "is what it is" and that's where fan fiction writers come in, to fill in the blanks. You're entitled to an opinion but I am asking you to keep it elsewhere.
> 
> This hasn't cropped up as an issue yet but I'm considering moderating the comments as they come in. Please note I have not been a part of the fandom since 2013, so I don't participate in these kinds of discussions and do not encourage them here. I'm merely a viewer and a fan and these comments put a damper on something I enjoy doing in my free time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changed up the perspective here. Will likely move the POV back to John in the chapter after this. Thanks for reading! 
> 
> (Also, retching and heaving makes a quick comeback, so probably not good to read this if you're feeling queasy.)

Sherlock shifted with a groan at the staccato vibration on his nightstand. Blindly, he slapped his hands down, knocking over his wallet, his watch, and his phone before groaning again in frustration. He swung half his body off the bed and fumbled around as his blood rushed to his head, yanking his phone into one hand while the other pulled it by the USB. He unhooked it and squinted at the name on the screen before answering immediately.

 

“J’hn?” he slurred, rolling back onto his other side.

 

“Oh. Sorry, were you sleeping?”

 

Sherlock opened his eyes, bedsheets shifting around him.

 

“I didn’t think you’d be,” John said, and Sherlock cut him off.

 

“No, I wasn’t, you’re fine,” he murmured, rubbing his eyes and pushing the grogginess from his voice. And then he considered the time, pulling back his phone to check it. “Are you okay? Is Rosie alright?” he asked, stiffening.

 

“Yes, I – oh, ha, no emergency, just…” His friend had drifted into quietness. Sherlock furrowed his brows.

 

“Just what?”

 

“Just. Checking in.”

 

“At three in the morning.”

 

“Er. Well…yeah.”

 

“John.”

 

“Look – “

 

“We haven’t talked in two months,” Sherlock snapped, the thickness in his voice nearly gone now, replaced with restrained fury. “And you’re interrupting my rest for a little chat about, what, just to see if I’m not still shoving needles up myself? How considerate of you.” His voice dripped in sardonicism.

 

“I – I thought you said you weren’t sleeping,” his friend murmured.

 

“Well, I lied. This is actually the second night I’ve been able to sleep soundly since – “ _No, don't mention her._ “In a long while,” he amended.

 

“I’m not.”

 

Sherlock blinked in the darkness. “Not what?”

 

“Sleeping. Soundly, that is.” John’s voice had gone a bit quiet, a bit stiff.

 

The detective sighed softly over the speaker, running fingers through his frizzy sleep hair. “Is that why you’re calling?”

 

There was a beat of silence before John admitted so. “Yeah. My dream – it was – you…” There was a quick, ragged breath. “Morgue. Us. What I did to you.”

 

Sherlock kept quiet. He wasn’t expecting this sort of bombshell to drop. His side twinged; a phantom ache from several kicks and subsequent bruises he’d gotten from his friend.

 

“I can’t – “ John’s voice was thick, but not with sleep like Sherlock’s was. It was thick with emotion, that tightness that constrained you like a hand around your throat. The noose around your neck when you’ve kicked the bucket from beneath, letting those memories spill out of its container. It cut off John’s voice almost immediately.

 

“John?” His voice was soft.

 

“Hold on. Sorry. It’s still quite fresh, you know? And vivid. I don’t doubt you’ve had the same,” he croaked out, clearing his throat.

 

“John,” Sherlock breathed out, trying to calm him.

 

“I’m a fucking maniac, Sherlock,” he suddenly choked out. “I – fuck, Christ, I’ve gone mad.” The doctor’s voice was shaking.

 

Sherlock clutched his mobile tight. “No, you’ve not, listen to me – “

 

“If that staff hadn’t stopped me, who knows what I’d have done.”

 

The detective closed his eyes. “John.”

 

“I was so selfish. I didn’t care anymore. I was throwing all my anger out on you, blow after blow after blow after _blow after blow after_ _– “_

  
_“John!”_ Sherlock burst out, for both of their sakes. He didn’t like reliving that moment, that utter betrayal of their friendship and love, and John was about to distress himself.

 

John fell silent, but not for long. “I killed you,” he said, and choked on his breath.

 

“You didn’t,” Sherlock murmured. “I’m right here.”

 

“I did. In my – “ The detective heard a noise from John, close to a sound of something coming up. A loud retch.

 

“Are you alright?” His voice was laced with worry. He swung his legs over the bed and stood.

 

“So much blood,” his friend gasped, and he could hear a whoosh of air, a clatter, and from the right of the speaker, the sound of John trying to throw up. 

 

“It’s alright,” he said, because there was nothing else to say. “I’m fine. It wasn’t real.” The noises continued, the gasps, wheezes, the broken sobs over what he presumed was the toilet bowl. How helpless he felt, listening to it over a speaker. He nudged the phone between his ear and shoulder, shucking his sweatpants and digging around his closet for proper clothes. The heaving had lessened, and Sherlock stilled as he heard John openly sobbing. Quiet and cold on the tiled floor, he imagined. There was an ache in his chest. Then, nothing. Silence.

 

“Are you there?” he asked quietly, zipping up his trousers.

 

“I am,” came the weak reply.

 

Sherlock took the phone in his hands again and switched ears. “I’m coming over.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, let me know what you thought! I love feedback. I'm not the world's best writer, just trying to get things across, but if I've caught your interest, let me know. Thank you for kudos and bookmarks! They make me feel quite special.
> 
> Also, I have decided to change the rating to E. This story may be about three or four chapters long.


	3. Chapter 3

The bubbling of the kettle calmed John. It was one of many things he took for granted. His eyes watched as the water heated up and plopped together inside the glass, never settling. He closed his eyes and dipped his head. Had any of his friends felt like this? Sherlock, surely. To be so desperate, so lost, so echoey inside that you find yourself staring at your own reflection and not recognizing yourself.

 

Ghostly.

 

And he thought it was over and done with. He'd packed up his feelings, shoved each and every bit into boxes and jars and closets and beneath mattresses or footstools, but the lids would pop every once in a while, the curtain would shiver. 

 

_John, I'm so sorry._

 

_She was so lovely._

 

_You two were something beautiful._

 

The sympathies he could take. Hearing didn't hurt as badly now as it did during her funeral. Her funeral was predictably small. He knew almost everyone. So, with that advantage, none of them laughed or gasped or grimaced at the end of the service when he broke down sobbing, grasping her lifeless hand in the casket, knees falling beneath him on the prayer bench. Ever so quietly, he'd heard someone whisper, _"Sherlock, no."_

 

What he'd seen when he'd turned had stayed in his head and his heart for hours afterward.

 

Molly and Janine in the very back of the chapel, pulling the detective back by the shoulder and arm. He was dressed in one of his typical suits, but with a black shirt and tie. A tie. Sherlock _hated_ ties. He was a step ahead, looking as if he was going to approach John. Their eyes met.

 

He hadn't invited the bastard.

 

When others had poured out slowly and only a handful of people were left, he strode over to Sherlock, who had disappeared into a corner to lay low.

 

"Get out," he hissed. "You _fucking_ bastard, get out." 

 

"She was my friend," Sherlock defended, straightening himself against the wall. He didn't look intimidated in the least, even after a beating. His cheek was still bruised. "I am allowed to mourn her properly." He spoke cooly, steadily, red-rimmed eyes with the glimmer of held-back tears the only thing giving him away.

 

_You know he's not to blame._

 

_She jumped in front._

 

_Don't be too hard on him._

 

_He's worried about you._

Those things he couldn't stand. The efforts to rekindle him and Sherlock, to make them kiss and make up like a pair of five-year-olds. Why couldn't they just drop it and let him mourn in peace?

 

God, he hated his friends sometimes. They told him things he needed to hear but didn't want to. He wanted to blame it all on one person, one person he could still hurt, still get to and make them feel his rage, his pain.

 

John Watson knew he was troubled. He was short-tempered. Simmering softly, innocently like the end of a lit rope, and he burned and burned and people did nothing to stop it, just watched in amazement. In the next moment he was the dynamite stick at the end of the rope, the last seam bursting apart, the explosion, throwing his fists and kicking his best friend to a bloody pulp, shouting about his damned leg and scaring his landlady, screaming obscenities at his pregnant wife as they settled into their trouble in paradise, barely dodging her well-aimed throws of pillows and shoes, her smart mouth. How could she love someone so imperfect when she only deserved the best?

 

The doorbell buzzed. John's eyes opened. The kettle beeped incessantly beneath him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit shorter than my other chapters! Looking like it might be about five chapters now, possibly? I'm still not sure.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock was about to press his finger into the buzzer again when the door opened. He dropped his hand. "John."

 

"Hi, sorry, kettle – "

 

"It's fine," Sherlock said, waving a bit before shoving his hands in his pockets. They stayed in a bit of a silence, and Sherlock let John's eyes roam over him. Checking him out. Medically. At a point, he huffed and impatiently glanced into the hall, the British way of cueing someone to let them in for a snoop.

 

"Ah. Come in, please," John quickly said, stepping back and to the side.

 

"Thank you." Sherlock did so. The hall lamp was on. Better to keep the imaginary demons away. Or hallucinations. His gaze flicked to John. He wondered if he was still imagining her. 

 

"You're wet," John noted.

 

Sherlock looked down at himself and offered a small smile, hair glowing in the soft light. "It's drizzly."

 

* * *

 

 

The thunder didn't pick up until they were sitting with their tea and chatting stiffly with each other about any other topic than the one screaming in their minds. They sat at opposite ends of the sofa, John in his dressing gown and joggers, Sherlock in his trousers and button-up. The lights were low here too, a floor lamp in a corner, two lamps on side tables, casting blurred shadows as they moved. 

 

"You look..."

 

"Hm?" The detective set down his mug.

 

"Better," John finished, and watched Sherlock shrug.

 

"I've not been using. I suppose that makes me better. Detox is killing me. I've been doing my best to keep away from cigarettes, but if the need for something stronger arises, I'd rather cut eleven minutes." He didn't have anything to do with his hands anymore and frowned, placing his palms on his thighs. "Are you okay?" he asked, meeting John's eyes.

 

John's eyes darted from him. "Fine."

 

"Stupid question. You could've just brought the toilet bowl out with you, you know." Sherlock brought the mug to his lips again, then stopped, watching carefully as John's face fell, his whole body, his demeanor fell apart, and he covered his face and hunched over. This process lasted for a minute before he watched his shoulders shake and the smallest of sharp breaths come from his friend.

 

He put down his tea again and moved further down the couch, slowly wrapping his arms around John and pulling him into his chest like he'd done before. He almost didn't stop himself from saying "It's alright." He fell quiet and closed his eyes as John's hands slowly came to rest on the detective's chest. 

 

"You shouldn't even be acknowledging me," John choked into his shirt. Sherlock's grip went tight. He hushed him and rubbed his back. "I'm – I'm a bloody monster," John gasped, a broken sob coming from him. The detective's chest ached.

 

"No," the other man murmured simply. "You're a man who has monsters, John. And now you've come to realize it." 

 

The man below him shifted, clutching Sherlock's shoulders, keeping his head bowed. "I hurt you."

 

"Yes."

 

This drew another sob from John. Sherlock took the doctor's face in his hands and pulled his face up to look at him.

 

"I could never ask for your forgiveness," the blond whispered.

 

Sherlock looked crestfallen. "You wouldn't have to ask for it." There were tears beginning to gather in his eyes. It was quiet for a moment, save for the pattering of the gathering rain on the windows. 

 

"It wasn't your fault," John breathed out, closing his eyes and placing a hand on top of one of Sherlock's. "Her death."

 

"I know." Sherlock swiped at a stray tear from John's chin. "She saved my life. I would have undoubtedly died. Your wife was a hero, John."

 

"Thought you said there weren't heroes," his friend sniffed, clearing his throat and meeting his eyes again.

 

Sherlock cracked a small smile. "She's an exception." 

 

John smiled back, just slightly, and pulled back to rub at his eyes and face. Sherlock's hands dropped, one resting gently on John's knee to hold him steady. After a moment, John glanced over again and looked hesitant. Then, without saying a word, he put two fingers to the pulse point in Sherlock's throat. There was a gentle thrum beneath his fingertips, and Sherlock knew it sped up just so as they held contact. He brought up his hand, fingers wrapping around John's wrist, gently squeezing. "I'm here. Flesh and blood and beating heart. Promise."

 

Tears slipped out of John's eyes before he surged up, pulling Sherlock's chin down, hesitated again. Sherlock dipped his head, their foreheads pressing together. "I want to kiss you," he whispered. Sherlock's eyes widened, a flush crawling up his face.

 

"John," he murmured back to him, concerned. "Where is this coming from?"

 

"Would you let me? So selfish, just this one thing, just – " He choked on his words. "I'm so sorry."

 

Sherlock moved his fingers back to John's face. "Are you certain?" he asked. A simple kiss was hardly anything compared to their complicated relationship now. It wasn't a make-or-break, after all.

 

He felt the nod against his skin. "Nothing weird. Just. Let me make up for it. All of it. With this."

 

"You punched me and now you want to kiss me." Sherlock wasn't demeaning or angry. He was, in fact, smiling – just a little.

 

John faltered. "Yes." 

 

"Kiss of Judas?" the detective joked quietly, and got a soft rumble of embarrassed laughter from John. When John shied away, pulling back, Sherlock tugged him in again by the shoulders. Just a kiss. The two of them had kissed plenty of people before. Nothing weird. He didn't wait long to close the gap between them, pushing their lips together and feeling his body warm up in response. His arms came around him. If this was what he needed tonight, he would provide. Tonight he would be his anchor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand provide Sherlock will. It'll take a quick turn in the next chapter. Heed the rating! Things are about to get spicy. Also, wow, I almost made it to 1,000 words in this chapter. Double post tonight, too! I'll slowly get the hang of writing fan fiction again, just you wait.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Haven't you ever..." John licked his lips and willed down his flush. "Ever wondered, what if we just – " He sighed. 
> 
>  
> 
> They finished at the same time.
> 
>  
> 
> "Developed a deeper relationship?" Sherlock asked.
> 
>  
> 
> "Fell into bed together?" John provided.

A soft press of lips. That's all it was going to be, and they knew it. They weren't to go past that. It would be against the rules of their friendship. Sherlock drew back about eight seconds in, flushed from head to toe, John's face following his for a split second. It had had more of an effect on him than he had thought, then. If the tingling sensation in his chest and stomach told Sherlock anything, it was that he had enjoyed it. John's eyes opened, clearing his throat in embarrassment.

 

"Sorry. Perhaps we shouldn't've..." John began quietly, and watched as Sherlock shook his head.

 

"They say kisses are an intimate gesture. That's what we are, aren't we? Intimate." His voice had gone a bit low.

 

"Are we?" John asked, his gaze falling to Sherlock's mouth again. 

 

"Not in a traditional sense, I suppose." 

 

"Nothing about us is traditional." John had leaned back a touch, face turned away. Sherlock did the same. 

 

Sherlock picked up his mug and stared down at the remaining tea he had to drink. "I liked it."

 

John's head turned, and he managed a small chuckle. "You did, huh?"

 

The detective gave a small nod, turning his face partway to smile back. With a sigh, John fiddled with his own mug. "So, if I wanted to try it again..." He caught his friend's curious look. "Would you let me?"

 

There was a flash of discomfort in Sherlock's expression. "Yes, but...perhaps you should think about it." He was on to him.

 

John frowned. "Think about it? I've already thought about it."

 

"You're in mourning, going through traumatic nightmares, and we've not seen each other in two months. Any good therapist might call this unhealthy."

 

"I might call it good reason," John huffed, setting down his mug and ruffling his silvering hair. "Haven't you ever..." He licked his lips and willed down his flush. "Ever wondered, what if we just – " He sighed. 

 

They finished at the same time.

 

"Developed a deeper relationship?" Sherlock asked.

 

"Fell into bed together?" John provided.

 

There was an awkward, heavy pause between them, the two of them staring at their mugs. John felt like a right perv.

 

"Yes," Sherlock finally answered. "To both."

 

John felt some of his shame drain away. "Really." Something close to elation was bubbling within him.

 

"Of course. But I think we should – " Sherlock was cut off, nearly dropping his tea on the carpet as John took the back of his neck in a hand and kissed him again. Blindly, he replaced it to the coffee table and let out a noise close to a moan, fingers free to clutch John's hair. "Think," he gasped against the doctor's mouth. "Think about – " He was kissed again, and there was a tongue in his mouth in seconds. "John," he groaned gently, feeling fingers excitedly roam down his sides. _"Slow down,"_ he begged, choking on a laugh.

 

John removed his mouth and replaced it to Sherlock's neck, kissing once firmly and pausing. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I'm sorry. We can stop."

 

Sherlock closed his eyes. He was at a crossroads: let John continue in his attempt to make love to him and risk the sanctity of their friendship, or stop it all right now, lay down the law, and deny this change. 

 

"I..." John's voice went soft. "I know I could never make up for what I did to you. But if you want this, too, I'm going to try to help us heal."

 

Sherlock opened his eyes, nudging John back from him, and saw the sincerity in his eyes. "This is an obligation for you?"

 

"No, I, I want this. I want you, Sherlock." 

 

Oh, bugger. Sherlock hesitated, pushing back the fringe that had fallen in John's eyes. The last time he'd seen his hair such a mess was when he'd exerted himself in the morgue. But, no, Sherlock didn't like that memory. He didn't want it. Not now.

 

"I want you too," he sighed, leaning in and pressing their mouths together again. He nipped John's lower lip, feeling his friend's arms come around to embrace him. It was his turn to coax open the other man's mouth, tongue dipping inside and meeting his. They stayed like that for quite a while, just kissing and kissing, touching carefully over each other's clothes, sighing and moaning softly to each other. John's head made its way to Sherlock's neck again.

 

Sherlock's breath hitched, eyes closing and head tipping to the side just so. They were quiet for a moment as John settled Sherlock on his back and followed him down. Anticipation whirred in the detective's stomach. The room filled with the noise of John's mouth kissing, sucking, nibbling, and licking at his friend's pale skin. Sherlock had tried half-heartedly to contain himself but let out the smallest moan of pleasure in the quiet, ever wary of the child sleeping down the hall. His teeth sunk into his bottom lip, pulling it tight into his mouth. He was suddenly quite dizzy.

 

"Are you breathing?" John asked, voice rough in Sherlock's ear.

 

Sherlock let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "Yes," he gasped, lightheaded.

 

"Breathe." John pressed a simple kiss to Sherlock's cheek. "You okay?" he asked, shifting awkwardly. One of his legs was holding him up on the sofa, the other steadied on the floor. He hovered inches from Sherlock before sitting up. "Sherlock?"

 

Sherlock opened his eyes. "I don't think I've ever been this aroused in my life." He swallowed with some difficulty, and the two of them mirrored grins, giggles bursting between them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're really gettin' into it here. Stay tuned.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah. The moment you've all been waiting for.

“I missed you,” Sherlock admitted between kisses. He and John were steadily on their way to John’s bedroom, pressing from wall to wall with impatience, catching each other’s necks and throats with mouths, collecting groans and pressing their bodies softly against one another. 

 

“I missed you, John,” he breathed out again for good measure, backed up in the hall by John so that the partly-closed bedroom door snapped shut behind them. “Shit,” he gasped, momentarily distracted by the loudness of the noise. John’s mouth was smeared over a collarbone, working the detective’s shirt open with those expertly trained fingers. He paused, breathing against him, and they listened.

 

“She’s out,” John promised after the long pause. He nuzzled his partner’s clavicle before pressing a soft kiss there, then to the other, fingers taking his wrists to undo his cuff buttons. “She sleeps heavy.”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes in relief and let his hips buck forward softly, head tipped back to the door. His shirt slid off his shoulders with assistance from John. The detective pulled his cuffs, tossing the shirt behind John and pulling him in by the waist, the two of them letting out simultaneous groans as they began to rut gently against each other. Eyes fluttering open, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John as the other man settled in his neck. Their cocks throbbed inside their trousers. They kept their rocking slow, rhythmic, their lips parted for quiet moans in their separate pleasures. Their hips swayed together in a sensual dance, pushing each other to the edge and pulling each other from it over and over again.

 

“Sherlock,” John grunted. “God, I’m sorry for – for not – I missed you too. Was…so selfish. Thinking of myself all the time.” 

 

Sherlock squeezed John tighter and rocked a little harder against him. “Don’t do it again.”

 

“Won’t. Promise.” John fumbled for the doorknob as they kissed again. Sherlock grabbed John’s arse and squeezed, fully hardened and gasping by the time they got on the other side of the door.

 

In minutes, they had their clothes off, Sherlock with his bare back on the bed and an arm slung over his eyes in irrational embarrassment. John was at the foot, crawling up slowly, too slowly, and Sherlock peeked as the bed protested softly beneath them. A little laugh came out of him. “You look as if you’re about to eat me up.”

 

John’s boyish grin flashed across his face. “Ever think I might?” he murmured, taking Sherlock’s legs to bend them at the knee, parting him for easy access. Sherlock’s cheeks went red and he covered his eyes again. There was a noise straddling the categories of human shock and inhuman squeak that came out of him as John’s tongue met the inside of his thigh, up, up, up to the crease. John’s nose pressed into the mess of hair near the base of his friend’s erection, breathing in his scent and exhaling with a grunt.

 

“Fuck. _John._ ” Sherlock’s free hand fisted into the duvet. He felt a swipe of a tongue near the base, right where his length broke free from his pubic hair. He cried out softly, holding his breath again to cut off his noise. “Please, please, please,” he begged, “I need you.”

 

John licked his lips and shrugged off his dressing gown, flinging it into the realm outside the bed. “Been a while since I’ve given head,” he warned, settling on his knees, hovering over Sherlock’s erection.

 

“You don’t bite and that’s good enough for me,” Sherlock breathed, reaching over to press the switch on the bedside lamp. “I can assure you that I won’t judge too harshly on your sexual abilities.”

 

John let out a little nervous laugh. He looked from Sherlock’s cock to his eyes, then back again, and leaned down. Gripping the base, he dipped his head and pressed a soft kiss to the head of the erection. 

 

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered as he sat up on his elbows. His body shivered imperceptibly. “Hold on, let me sit up properly.” He adjusted himself, piling the two pillows behind himself and leaning back against the headboard. He parted his legs for John in invitation, knees bent up and feet flat on the bed. John returned to his position from before, taking Sherlock’s cock in hand, but this time, he moved his lips over his length. He went down, down, down, eyes closed as Sherlock grasped at his hair, curled his toes, and whimpered in pleasure. It became second-nature after a few minutes, coming up for air a few times, beginning a steady bob up and down the warm shaft in his mouth noisily. The more saliva and pre-come he gathered the more messy it became. Sherlock and John dripped onto the sheets, John unabashedly slurping at him and feeling more than a bit enthusiastic.

 

“John,” Sherlock choked out. “John – ” Up Sherlock’s spine came a creeping whirlpool of tingles. It flew up into his neck and floated back down, swirling in his stomach and flooding into his balls. “God, John, _John!”_ The grip tightened in his friend’s hair, his other hand flailing for a surface to catch, finally settling on the headboard behind him. His short nails clawed at the wood desperately as his orgasm built, breath hitching higher and higher as he watched his partner. His muscles pulled taut into his pale arms as his fingers, finally finding a grip, held on for dear life to the top of the headboard.

 

John hummed around the mouthful and rubbed his partner’s thigh soothingly, encouragingly. He came off and licked a stripe along the underside, flicking his tongue over the slit of the crown. “Come on, then.” His voice had roughened. His blown pupils rested on Sherlock’s as he teased the frenulum with the tip of his tongue, watching Sherlock’s head fly back and hit the headboard with a loud bang. 

 

John's eyes widened in alarm and he drew back, ready to check on him, but the man seemed unfazed. He panted and whimpered for John’s tongue on his erection, completely beside himself with arousal. “Almost. Don’t stop,” he gasped to him, hips lifting off the bed in a silent prayer of want. And so he took him down again, responding to Sherlock’s breathy, urgent requests of _“Faster, faster, oh God! Yes, John! Yes, like that!”_ in a timely matter.

 

A little over four minutes after John first kissed his tip, Sherlock’s body tensed up and he cried out with little warning. John, in the midst of pulling up, had tears in his eyes from trying not to cough as ejaculate shot down his throat. Warm, very…salty. Not the best thing he’d tasted, but he swallowed it back like he loved it, groaning around the detective’s cock as he slowly continued his bobbing. The hand on his hair yanked weakly. His head lifted off and he was being pulled into a kiss. Eyes closed, he kissed Sherlock back, grasping himself in hand and giving his cock a few tugs.

 

“Oh,” his new lover sighed against him, “I think it’s your turn.” The detective exhaled heavily, a satisfied little smirk coming across his face as he slumped back and paused for breath. “Give us a few." He licked his lips and laughed blissfully as John leaned back in to pepper kisses under his ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually thinking...two more chapters? I'm not sure how it will end up, now that I'm breaking up the smut into two parts here. Oh well! 
> 
> Thanks to everyone for the continued support. :-) I love to hear your thoughts and input! Drop a comment and kudos if you've enjoyed so far. <3


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